


Last Request

by Eturni



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, As far as Crowley knows, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, and then abruptly not becasue Crowley does not deal with his feelings, smashing book and TV canon together for convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/pseuds/Eturni
Summary: Okay, so book Crowley didn't need to see Aziraphale still there before he decided to ditch the sensible option and go off to Tadfield. He just needed to know that it was the last thing that he'd been working on. That gives me feels in the context of the TV show's 'run away with me' and 'you killed my best friend' scenes and this is what demanded to be let out as a result.





	Last Request

And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even _think_ about you.

He’d meant the words. He always _meant_ them. For a while at least.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Something about the angel always had them gravitating back together. Something Aziraphale would undoubtedly call ineffable. Well, that was a lie perhaps. It was something Aziraphale would absolutely deny up and down but always with that face like he was trying to eat sushi bought from the Cobham service station.

 _I forgive you_. An absolution, almost condemnation, that would have burned him if not for the fear, for the regret, on his face that Aziraphale couldn’t hide behind his angelic script.

In his defence, this time when he want seeking the angel out it wasn’t because the world was just so bloody boring while he was giving him the cold shoulder. Aziraphale had phoned first. Sort of. And he’d been far too busy dealing with Hastur to even fully register what it was he’d said. So it only made sense to go and see what he’d wanted, didn’t it?

No way at all that he’d heard any of the message repeating as he went through the phone lines.

If he had then he definitely would not be heading to the bookshop. Since he had no reason to care where the Antichrist was. He was going to be running away soon. Getting himself free of this rock and Her and sides and fucking _ineffability._

And since he was definitely leaving he certainly wasn’t running to Aziraphale because of the demons at his back. It wouldn’t matter when he was gone so there was no way he would need to seek out the other for solutions or solidarity or heav- he- whatever forbid _comfort_.

He was leaving. Without Aziraphale. He was just curious and that was definitely a terrible sin suitable for a demon like him. Enough to make an angel Fall back in the old days.

And so it was only focused on his curiosity and driving at 90mph because that’s what he did _anyway thank you very much_ that he turned the corner and felt his body turn to stone.

If pressed, somewhere down the line, Crowley might remember his indignation as he approached the burning building and some prat dared ask him if he owned it. A bookshop. _Might_ remember, because it was almost the last thing on his mind as he barged his way through and into the roaring, spitting fire within.

All the edges of him, the body he used as a shell and the atoms of power that they housed the same, screamed and burned and reached out in every conceivable way as he searched uselessly for Aziraphale amidst the fire. Some part of him knew it was useless even as he was doing it. He could feel the angel gone from this place like he could feel the sun gone from the sky or the grace lost from his form.

He was screaming the same. Searching the same. Until a jet of water threw him to the ground and gave him one second of space.

And in the face of that brilliant, horrifying light and heat he felt everything in him change. The world hadn’t dropped out from underneath him. No, the world could have kindly gone and fucked itself in a corner and had been all but falling apart in the lead up to this moment anyway.

The entire dam- blessed universe had fallen from around him. Had fizzled into useless screaming static in his ears. _They’ve killed my best friend. BASTARDS!_

Because even if he did leave, and he was _definitely going to before this_ , he always thought he would be back. Staying with Above and fighting their stupid war was so not Aziraphale’s style but Crowley had still just assumed that he would be safe somehow regardless. That he would always be there in some vague way.

He just couldn’t stand the thought of watching both sides crush all of humanity under the weight of their desperate, petty argument. All that beautiful, perfect imperfection and _potential._

But Aziraphale was gone. Discorporated. _Or worse_. A voice in his head supplied. Fire, like hellfire. And he was suddenly sick and empty and adrift in nothing and he didn’t take the time to bother checking as he grabbed Agnes Nutter’s book and stumbled back out of the bookshop to the Bentley.

He was driving (or the Bentley was), no clear destination and the book in his lap as he leafed through, stomach twisting as he looked through Aziraphale’s notes. He was utterly empty and at the same time so full of everything. For the first time in a long time scared and _alone_ because he hadn’t lied - they didn’t have sides, only each other. Now just him.

Which was about the time that he found the folded sheet of paper that Aziraphale had been working so hard on. His notes for the book. Time. Place. Accurate, meticulous and brilliant in the way only his angel could be.

It felt like a missive. Like the last thing he could do.

He barely had the thought to respond to the words as Hell tapped into his car radio and liberally threatened him with the kind of extinction that would leave him wishing he was mortal. What did that matter now?

This was what Aziraphale had wanted. Maybe the last thing.

The _want_ was tangible almost. And Crowley, as a demon, was very good at feeling wants that were going unanswered. Especially those unanswered, and disapproved of, by Her. So perfectly like Aziraphale that it tugged a smile at the corners of his lips even as he was cursing out Below to himself. Crowley knew temptation so well, was constantly needling his angel to think more, to see that all that posturing about good being in unquestioning obedience wasn’t half as good as the true, compassionate, kind goodness that made up every single atom of Aziraphale.

Though he’d deny that kind of soppy thought to the last excruciating moment of his death if anyone asked.

Here it was. The final want. The rebellion that his angel was absolutely convinced (needed to convince himself) wasn’t a rebellion because Heaven was good and of course they would want to stop this. Stop any unnecessary bloodshed. He didn’t know how he could pretend he believed that after the flood. _You’re clever. How could someone so clever be so stupid?_

Heaven wanted this war. Aziraphale, bright and wonderful and _never his_ , had not.

This was perhaps the last thing he could do for him, going along with this far too kind-hearted rebellion. Crowley wanted too. Wanted to do anything for _his_ (never his enough) angel. Wanted to do anything right now to piss off the powers Below who had just shouted at him like a misbehaving plant.

And what the he- heav- everloving shit. If you had to go, why not go with style?

The Bentley changed course to Tadfield.


End file.
